Unworthy
by love and music are forever
Summary: What if it hadn't ended that night on the floor? House decides he's unworthy of his angel and that he is is worthy of only one thingnothing. A oneshot. Character death. Dark.


**I'm back! After my crazy long hiatus, I've finally written another story. Just a short one-shot to tide everyone over until I'm finally satisfied with the first chapter of my longer stuff.**

**Disclaimer 1: Character death!!  
****Disclaimer 2: I own neither Wilson nor House. Sadly. I wish I did. But for now, I just play with the toys, I put them back just the way I found them.  
****Rating: T**

**Love you all! Please send me comments because I find them very helpful! Thanks!!**

Unworthy

He wasn't worthy of his angel.

There were some in this world who deserved mercy because of the willingness of their souls to receive it. But there was no such willingness in him. There were some who deserved mercy because the previous noble acts of their life were enough to obscure the mistakes of a short period. But there were no such good deeds.

And then, there are those that receive mercy because they have an angel in their life. He was one such as this.

And he was no longer worthy of his angel.

It was neither God nor Satan who had brought him to his knees here on the bathroom floor, (after all, he believed in neither one of them). It was only himself. It was not even the memory of the cold, piercing eyes of his angel looking down at him that had brought him here. It was only himself. His decision, his fate.

And still, he thought of the way that face had gazed down at him, all pain and disgust—no customary saintly grace, no commonplace desire to forgive. Only coldness.

Cold.

Like the tile under his bare flesh.

He had seen in those heavenly eyes a flash of disappointment. He'd failed his angel again. In the very act that his angel both hated and loved. It was the thing his angel wanted above all things, but could never dare to hope, and he had failed.

He would not fail this time. He didn't need anymore failures added to his generous supply. This time he would not lie in a pool of his own vomit, but instead in his blood. He wouldn't take any chances this time.

His angel would feel no pain or surprise at this. He could not fall any farther from his angel's grace. How could one fall from grace when they had never possessed it in the first place?

But was he not an angel in his own right?

Not a white angel, but a fallen one.

His black, tattered wings would no longer lift him into flight. And his soul was too stained with his own failings to anymore believe it would ever know love again.

He was unworthy of love.

Unworthy of his angel.

And, finally, his angel knew that.

He had at last turned his face away. _Get behind me, Satan. _Satan—the angel who had fallen the farthest. House saw himself equal in all ways to that angel, except he had not had as far to fall.

He wasn't just trying to comfort himself with the religious motifs as he approached the end. He had no "final questions" left that he needed to up with fairy tales to answer. There were no mysteries he wanted solved. He had always solved the mysteries. _The Rubiks Complex_. He'd solved the puzzle at last.

His purpose in life: Wilson's purpose.

He was here on this planet only to make Wilson's life mean something. He was Wilson's ultimate objective.

And he was unworthy of even that.

The angel deserved so much more than a hopeless fight with the fallen as they both plunged downward into the spiral of Dante's inferno; sinking lower into each layer of hell. House would not let himself drag another angel down.

Pain and death were no strangers to him. They were the two black wings that had stooped his shoulders for too long. They were old friends and enemies, old lovers and old adversaries. An intrinsic paradox.

They were his two ultimate companions here at the end. And he was not afraid to embrace them as his final friends one last time before he fell into the silent stillness of oblivion.

There is no heaven. There is no hell. There is only this moment.

And beyond…nothing…

This notion didn't frighten House.

In fact, it comforted him. He wanted no eternal damnation for the things he had done. And could never bear to receive more charity that he would feel unworthy of. He wanted nothing. He was escaping from everything. The only way to do that was to find nothing.

He was unworthy of his angel.

His last prayer was that his angel would not be the one to find him. He didn't want Wilson to see him cold. Unless, his angel would find repentance in the act. But that repentance would only be if by his death he could finally repay the debt of kindness that had been done to him.

He would free not only one soul, but two.

No one had brought him here but himself. As much as he wanted to pass this off as a charitable offering. He couldn't. His angel would receive recompense, yes, but only as a secondary result.

_It was neither God nor Satan who has brought me to my knees. It is me. It is only me. _

He was unworthy of his angel.

Unworthy of himself.

Unworthy of anything.

Unworthy of even the last few moments he was allowed as the blood spilled out. He knew it didn't take long for a person to bleed out. Less than a minute. And yet, here, he had an eternity.

Maybe there was no heaven and no hell, and only this moment. For the rest of eternity. Eternity was a cold bathroom floor with his own blood spilling around him. His head filled with philosophical thoughts and self-condemnations.

Was this his eternity?

No…

His eyes had already closed and the scarlet pool of blood was slowly receding from his mind. Like a dying ember the image of it ceased to burn on the inside of his eyelids. The blackness opened up before him and behind him and under him and around him and engulfed him.

It was perfect peace, perfect happiness, and perfect redemption.

He felt, for the first time, as if he had, in some small way, released his angel from the prison.

_Cages or wings? Which do you prefer my angel?_

It was only himself who had brought himself to this point only himself who had come to this point. And only himself who would be leaving it. The pain and worthlessness would be left behind. And only House, black wings (now scars unable to be erased) and all, would fall into the void. Arms outstretched, like a martyr. Eyes closed in perfect serenity, like a saint. And among all this, his black wings, the only betrayer of what he really was.

A fallen angel, escaping his name at last.

He was unworthy of his angel… and unworthy of _being_ a fallen angel anymore.

Worthy at last…

Unworthy of everything…

But worthy of Nothing…

Nothing…


End file.
